The dark days of Tom Riddle
by Vivian Kain
Summary: Tom's life before he was Lord Voldemort....this is a more serious story than I usually write so be nice and r/r please!


Okay everyone, I wrote this awhile ago and I never posted it because it's not my best work. I decided that I want to see what everyone thinks of it because I got such great reviews on my other Harry Potter fic, "Lucky Day", which is a humor story. Anyway, I'm not sure where this one is going or if it will even continue but I want to know what everyone thinks of it, it's only the second story I've posted on here that hasn't been humor. Tom's life before his reign as Voldemort has always fascinated me, and I wanted to explore his personality a little bit deeper. I'm going to contine this, but whether or not I post it is up to you and your reviews. Thanks, and on with the show!  
  
Tom stood by the edge of the lake, staring blankly into its murky depths. He bent slowly, his fingers closing around the edge of a stick that was lying half-hidden in the shallow, muddy water. A ghostly smile playing at his lips, he traced the words on the ground and whispered them aloud. "Happy Birthday, Tom," he said softly, his words carried away by the savage wind almost as soon as he uttered them. He was seventeen today, and the world would soon be his for the taking. He wrapped his woolen scarf tighter around his neck, coughing violently as he did so. He'd had a bad cold for several weeks, and he was sure Proffessor Dippet would throw a fit if he found him out by the lake in this weather. Grasping the stick again, Tom scribbled out the words he'd written on the bank, then carefully stamped them out with the heel of his shoe. Happy Birthday indeed. Had anyone remembered? Tom didn't think so. Before he could stop himself, Tom had emitted a dry, racking sob, which echoed loudly in the cold, clear night. He was interrupted by a cough, which he attempted unsuccessfully to stifle. Well, it looked as though he would have to go inside now, before he woke the whole bloody place up. Angrily, he flung the stick in a high, haphazard arc over the gloomy lake, which it eventually met with a muffled splash. Tom turned slowly, pulling the invisibility cloak around his shoulders as he went. Silently, he moved like a ghost past the small stone hut beside the lake, and the sounds of a barking dog was barely distinguishable among the sounds of the night. Tom winced as he heard the youthful laugh from inside the cabin. "Ah, Fang, yer my bes' fren in the 'ole worl'," a voice cried happily. He knew that it was Og the gamekeeper's apprentice, Hagrid. Og was probably still going about his gamekeeping duties, and Hagrid was most likely preparing for sleep. Tom bit his lip, the guilt washing over him again, suffocating him. "It was the only way," he comforted himself. What if Dippet had discovered that it was he, Tom, who had opened the Chamber? He couldn't be expelled. He had so more to lose. Hagrid had always been a waste of a proper wizarding education, in Tom's opinion. It was useless anyway to try to improve relations between wizards and giants. "They will never be like us," he told himself, swallowing his bad feelings. If he had been expelled, or sent to Azkaban…… He shuddered visibly at the thought. He would never go to Azkaban. Was it such a crime to crave power? That was all he wanted. He had been powerless to prevent the death of his own mother in childbirth, powerless when it came to his father leaving, powerless in regards to his own upbringing, powerless under the control of Professor Dippet, Professor Dumbledore, and the others. Dumbledore. Dumbledore had suspected him from the start. He had even written to Madame Lenore at that terrible muggle orphanage, asking about his behavior during the summer holidays. Thank God Madame Lenore pitied him. She didn't know his horrible secret. Tom had reached the glowing entrance hall now, and he stepped gratefully inside. The warmth of the castle encompassed him, and he pulled off the invisibility cloak, displaying his shining prefect's badge as he moved toward his dungeon common room. "Hello, Tom." Tom glared wildly around, finally locating the source of the voice. "Good evening, Alastor." The handsome boy in the corner of the Entrance Hall stepped out of the shadows, running one hand through his light brown hair, his eyes shining with malice. "And where were you so late?" Alastor forced his tone to be light, but Tom was not fooled. Alastor Moody was yet another person that Tom would have to mark carefully. "I should be asking you, Moody. I don't see your prefect's badge," Tom said airily. Moody said nothing, but continued to glare. Tom was beginning to feel intimidated, a nasty state he did not much care for. It was then that Alastor attacked. He lunged at Tom, knocking him to the ground. Tom struggled, but Alastor's strength was greater. He slammed Tom roughly against the wall, his breath coming in hot gasps. "You're a bad wizard, Tom Riddle. And I have made a promise to myself. Before the end of my born days, I will kill you. Not today, no, not today. But one day Tom. I know the things you will do. I know the future as you never will. You will do great and terrible things, Tom. And I swear to God I will be the one to stop you." He let Tom go, and he fell to the floor, choking and sputtering. He was embarrassed to feel the salty tears on his cheeks, his eyes leaking hopelessly as he wiped the discharges away. Fortunately, Alastor had already gone. Tom stumbled blindly through the entrance hall and down the twisting stairs off to one side, still swiping furiously at his eyes. "Salazar," he murmurred at the entrance to the Slytherin common room. After gaining admittance, he dragged himself slowly to his dorm, shedding his clothes as he went. Down to only his boxers, he collapsed onto his bed and finally allowed the tears to run unchecked down his cheeks. He punched his pillow furiously as it began to dampen from the wetness on his face. He was crying for everything. Crying for his mother, his father, himself and his lonely birthday. He was crying because he knew that Alastor had been right. He was a bad wizard, evil through and through, and he was disgusted with himself down to his very core. Why couldn't he fight against it? He was too proud to ask for help. No one could help him now. He dried his tears carefully on his sheets after what seemed like hours. He felt gloriously uplifted after his violent release, but he was still strangely weighted down. He reached for the invisibility cloak again, and felt inside it for the pocket. He removed the only thing in his possession worth anything to him: the letter from his father. He'd read it a thousand times and knew it by heart, but he unfolded the ripped, fading parchment anyway, going against his better judgement. He began to read.  
  
"My dearest Lola,  
Recent events must be taken into account at this time. After you told me last night, I didn't know what to think. I have been wretched to you Lola, and I know I've hurt you. I walked the streets last night, watching the sun go down and the lamps light up, filling the square with a brassy glow. I thought about you, and about our child. It is my belief, dear Lola, that fate and destiny exist in their purest forms within each of our hearts. Our destiny is decided for us, but only we can map the journey. I know that I am not destined to be a good man, or a good husband and father. When I look within my heart I see only hatred, and evil. Somehow only you could see past all the bitterness my heart holds to find something to love, but I still cannot find it, no matter how hard I look. It is because of this, my love, that I must leave. I shall return to the House of Riddle, to the house I have always known, and leave you to raise our dear boy on your own. Take him away from the father who can only destroy him, and teach him bitterness and lies and hatred. Raise him as you were brought up, and treat him kindly. If you could only love him enough for both of us, then I wouldn be indebted with my life. I ask only one thing. Although I can only hope that he does not bear my spirit, I should hope that he would carry the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle. It is my fond wish that he will make that name one to be far prouder of than I did in his quest for greatness, for I know he shall one day be the most powerful of his kind. Of your kind. Lola, I do not regret leaving the boy without my footsteps to follow. I regret only that I could not love you the way you deserve, and that our little Tom will never know a father worthy of him. The hour grows late my love, and I must start upon my journey. Live your life knowing that the ultimate sacrifice was made this night, to give our son the chance to be what I could not.  
All my love,  
Tom"  
  
His eyes were dry now, but Tom felt the familiar pull at the strings of his heart. His father had tried to save him. He had tried to change the fate of his son, to change his destiny. But he should have known better. The same bitter hatred that had been caked around the elder of these two Toms had found its way into the heart of his only son. The same blood coursed in the veins of these two people, who were so much alike. Tom thought his father a fool. He had said himself that you could not change destiny, and yet he had left in spite of it, left Tom's mother to die, and Tom in a muggle orphanage. All those nights spent alone. And before Hogwarts, eleven years of pain and anguish had led Tom to believe only the worst about people, and most especially the man that had left him to grow up on his own. With all his soul, Tom hated his father. Down the the very marrow, he loathed the man who had helped to make him. It would have been better if he had never even been born. In the light of the moon, Tom Riddle's eyes gleamed darkly. His father would one day die by his hand, for it was his fate. Tom did not want it, but he had to do it. It was his destiny, just as leaving his pregnant wife had been the destiny of his father. Tom stared up at the moon, his eyes begging for salvation. Eventually, the moon sank into the horizon and the sun gleamed brightly in, but by then Tom's eyes had closed, and he was haunted no more by the letter clutched tightly in his fist. 


End file.
